Short Post is

Big changes coming up in the future.
Got my passport the other day but that's a post for later.

Small changes happening all the time.

I replaced the toilet and put down some new linoleum in our bathroom last night with my mother-in-law. The renovation went surprisingly smoothly until it came down to removing the last bolt on the toilet. The nut had rusted so completely that no amount of wrenching, twisting, or swearing would loosen it.

Finding no way to remove the bolt I did the next reasonable thing and smashed the toilet with a hammer.

Learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes blunt force can achieve the same results as finesse.

Rum Diary

Having remained elusive for many day, I managed to track down the Rum Diaries at a local Red Box. Initial reviews painted a bleak picture. As though a massive wave of apathy and discontent rose up. On the Red Box website you can still see the high water mark where people had cared for Johnny Depp and the works of Thompson.

"It's too boring." "Nothing happens." And similar complaints. These people though don't understand the point of the film. Depp is not trying to play a swishing sun-addled pirate nor is the film about the Fear, Loathing, and mountains of drugs a serious habit can help you obtain. It is in there but that is not the point or the time period the film tries to capture. 

There is something magical about Depp's portrayal of Hunter and something about Hunter's tracts that burrow deep within the mind. Following the wrinkles in the brain like an Innerspace Perseus carrying a string of such scintillating thought that it generates a mild mania within. 

A calling to go out there and find the Dream. 

The novel evokes stinging salt, ever present sand, and the kind of depression you can only find in a paradise.

I had started to read the book before a trip to North Carolina. With twenty of my closest friends we set off on the staple collegiate escape to the beach. 

On that small isthmus, looking out into the steel grey horizon I realized I couldn't finish the book. The ink had started to seep into my skin and i could feel Hunter 's presence creep up behind the eyes. I needed rum and sterner stuff. I craved something larger and larger.

And when the warm winds blow. I feel those same stirrings. 

The cravings. 

Full Moon Musings

Growing up I got really into vampire mythology. My fascination didn't lead to bloodletting though as I was like the Jehovah's Witness of Goths. My interest was slightly more highbrow. I craved immortality and still do in all honesty. So, I backed the undead ticket. Nowadays expressing interest in vampires can lead to excruciating conversations about lovelorn vegetarian vampires and their fascination with Mary Sue character archetypes. Thus, my interest has gone to ground if you'll pardon the phrase. My interest in the undying is now a deep dark secret (if it ever was that secret). Recently, I have found myself switching teams and becoming more and more interested with werewolves.

I will touch briefly on the Vampire vs Werewolf phenomenon that has exploded with the Twilight scene as the two creatures are tied together in myth and critical understanding in a few ways. All of my readers (perhaps a whole four!) know that Twilight was not the first to put these beasts together to make the sweet horror reese's cup tweens crave, though nor was Underworld the progenitor of this monster mash. No, the peanut butter to vampire's chocolate has been werewolves for centuries. As a personal anecdote, the first time I saw the two sides fight was in an episode of The Real Ghostbusters  "No One Comes to Lupusville."

Slimer spoke a language similar to Nibbler from Futurama
and was way more annoying.

In some ways I've always been slightly interested in werewolves for some time. I'll watch The Howling if its on and I recently bought American Werewolf in London. Which if you haven't seen it, you should go out right now and find a copy because it's special effects have aged better than its cgi filled sequel An American Werewolf in Paris. But, my new found passion for lycanthorpes comes from two sources. One, the excellent book The Last Werewolf and two, from what I think is a maturation on my part.

The Last Werewolf is the first book of Duncan's I read but the second one I've written about. While in some embarrassing ways I enjoyed I, Lucifer, I adored Werewolf. It paints the werewolf as erudite and as interesting as the vampire; and it does so logically. If every so often you Hulked out and went on a killing rampage you would begin to learn to hide it or you would wind up a rug on some hunter's floor. Duncan's protagonist hides his actions making his killings look like regular 'ole murders and probably by shaving regularly. I can't tell you how many times (particularly in film) the werewolf was always the scruffy looking dude with the five o' clock shawdow or beard.

A werewolf from the Netherlands

By creating a werewolf with some degree of intelligence and a longer life than most werewolves in fiction or cinema Duncan allows the creature to get some of its dignity and respect back. I could care less about the dignity bit though. I was once again pulled to the long life aspect. 

My second reason for the increased interest with werewolves becomes slightly more personal. Back in high school at the height of my vampire obsession I, perhaps unsurprisingly wasn't getting laid.

Hahaha just kidding I got mad pussy.

My sexual encounters were limited and strangely related to vampric lore. Lots of biting, making out and soulful looks but not a whole lot else. Now I'm married and much more worldly so when my passion runs hot I feel more like a beast. 

A sexy, sexy beast.

But, does this newest interest mean my love life will dry up? It's hard to say. I am married now so it's almost like I'm contractually obligated to get some. Although my wife does raise the valid point.Who would want to fuck a werewolf?

Truth

Things recently have felt unreal, truth be told. This unreality might have something to do with the time of year. It is supposed to be cloudy, grey, and overbearing. I'm supposed to lose myself in the stark harsh mistress of winter, truth be told. Bury my self in her white cloak while my breath escapes through the angel my body left in the ground.

Except, there hasn't been any real snow. It's been a protracted Fall bleeding into what will be a early Spring. Groundhog be damned! Truth be told, I miss the Winter. It gets a bum rap. Anyone old enough to work views it as a hazard or pain. Others see it only as the long dark before spring; a mirthless time. I don't disagree with them. Not outwardly at least. A part of me does miss it though. The sharp sting to the skin. A burning in my asthmatic lungs.

When I thought no one was looking i'd walk out into those frozen nights of years past and sit down by the river reveling in the reflection of light off the Ohio's murky, disgusting waters. On those frigid nights with the water moving along like tar I would fantasize about wading out as far as I could go.  I knew i would probably freeze so I stayed firmly planted on the bench by the gazebo where I would propose.

Those were funny nights. Truth be told.

I fear my life will be like a dandelion, shockingly bright, only to blow away. 

Wayward Hair

I was in love with,

my wayward hair then,

and so was he.

I would think,

looking in the mirror,

I am the Earth Mother.

“Oh damn,

I’ve got pillowface.”

I’d often remark.

I don’t care,

what face it is,

as long as it’s yours.

What if I had

the face of the walrus?

I’d ask him next.

I would be your

Koo koo ka choo

Or your carpenter.

As long as you don’t hammer

in the morning or at suppertime.

Really, anytime it’s inconvenient.

Dearest, you know

I’d bang you anytime

day or night.

I loved him

our morning routine

and my wayward hair.

When bad plots happen

Scientists have created

a trust potion,

an advertising promotion.

“Just smile, because

you know,

they’re making love.”

No, fuck you.

I know what they’re

up to. And to be honest,

without being rude, they’re

trying to control when and with

whom, we can be nude.

Odd but true, think of

the economic situation

of a monogamous relation.

What you’re thinking is correct,

we do love cheesy endings. They

should be a choice though

and not the way.

We don’t need no Number 9.

Now and forever we don’t need

no thought control.

In sickness and in health,

take your stimulus package

And rock the recession. With our one

and only weapon left, emotion.